She began to like him. There was something a little dainty about him, when you knew him better—really rather fastidious. A showman, true enough! Blatant too. But fastidiously so.
He came fairly frequently to Manchester House after this. Miss Pinnegar was rather stiff with him and he did not like her. But he was very happy sitting chatting tête-à-tête with Alvina.
“Where is your wife?” said Alvina to him.
“My wife! Oh, don’t speak of her,” he said comically. “She’s in London.”
“Why not speak of her?” asked Alvina.
“Oh, every reason for not speaking of her. We don’t get on at all well, she and I.”
“What a pity,” said Alvina.
“Dreadful pity! But what are you to do?” He laughed comically. Then he became grave. “No,” he said. “She’s an impossible person.”
“I see,” said Alvina.
“I’m sure you don’t see,” said Mr. May. “Don’t—” and here he laid his hand on Alvina’s arm—“don’t run away with the idea that she’s immoral! You’d never make a greater mistake. Oh dear me, no. Morality’s her strongest point. Live on three lettuce leaves, and give the rest to the char. That’s her. Oh, dreadful times we had in those first years. We only lived together for three years. But dear me! how awful it was!”